Dorgan appeared to be greatly flustered and in pain. His left arm was helpless from a wound in the shoulder, and from the fleshy part of it an arrow protruded. It probably had been less painful to leave it there than to pull it out. It was a home-made arrow. "What you shootin' at?" demanded Bill Jordan. "That infernal Injun," whined Dorgan. "He's bin pesterin' me; follerin' me like a shadow." The vigilantes peered into the darkness, and made out a hummock on the prairie. It was a dead horse, and from behind it Injun rose and came toward the group. He had been reassured by the sound of Bill's voice. "Lemme go!" cried Dorgan. "I don't want no more truck with him," and he started as if to run, but was roughly held back. "What's all this rumpus about, Injun?" Bill Jordan demanded, when the boy was within hearing. Injun indicated Dorgan. "Him steal Monty," he said. "Is that Monty lying dead over there?" Mr. Sherwood inquired anxiously. "No. Him run away," Injun replied. "Then it musta bin Monty that passed us," said Bill Jordan. Through short, sharp questioning it was developed that Injun had seen Dorgan take Monty from the Hanley Ranch corral, had borrowed a mount for himself, and followed; that he had winged Dorgan with an arrow, the shock of which had jarred him so that he had fallen from the pony. The other arrow in Dorgan's arm was the result of another lucky shot by Injun. When the vigilantes arrived, Dorgan was striving to return the compliment. He had succeeded in killing Injun's borrowed horse, behind which that expert young person had barricaded himself. It took but a minute to tell this story. Again Injun indicated Dorgan and said: "Him drop something." Running back in the course Dorgan had taken, Injun returned with a small but heavy canvas bag. It was filled with gold and silver coins, the principal currency of the West in those days. This promised interesting developments, but Dorgan, who had fallen into a sullen silence, refused to answer when questioned about the bag. "What's going on at the Hanley Ranch, Injun?" Mr. Sherwood asked. "Have those threshers killed Gil Steele?" "Dunno, Make heap noise. Much fire-wa--whiskey," said Injun, suddenly remembering his education. His object had been to "get" Dorgan. His plan had been to watch Monty. The plan had worked. That was all he knew. "Come, we've lost time enough," said Mr. Sherwood. "Two of you fellows will have to ride double. One take Injun, the other Dorgan. Injun, you take Dorgan's gun, and if he makes a break, plug him." But Dorgan didn't want to go back to the Hanley Ranch, and suddenly he became very talkative. He could explain about the money and Monty and everything. "No time for chinning," Bill Jordan said. "Boost him up." "Would you b'lieve a Injun 'stead o' me?" Dorgan wailed, as he was being boosted onto the horse of a disgusted cowboy. "Sure--a rattlesnake," declared Bill. And the party started, Injun proudly carrying Dorgan's reloaded six-gun.